The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

She should be shocked—she knew it. The thought floated through her brain. And out.

There was too much to take in, to absorb, to learn. To feel. No missish sentiment, no modesty was strong enough to distract her from the sensuous delight of his fingers, the strength of his hands, the pleasure they conjured.

Fascination was too weak a word for all she felt.

From under her lashes, she glanced down at him, sensed, within herself, a change, a shift, a wish to give him as much pleasure as he was lavishing on her. Was that how it happened? Why sane women made the decision to accept a man’s need and pander to it?

Her mind couldn’t give her the answer; she let the question slide away.

He was looking at her breasts, at his hands upon them; he glanced up, caught her gaze.

Heat welled, and a tide of emotion swept through her; she smiled, deliberately, equally deliberately leaned low, ignoring the press of her breasts into his hands, and kissed him.

Felt him still, drag in a huge breath . . . then he shifted, tipped her back, and turned so he lay beside her; one hand remained on her breast, the other framed her face. He kissed her—ravished her mouth, sent her senses spinning once more, then slowly, gradually, drew her back.

When he lifted his head they were both breathing raggedly; their gazes met briefly, their lips throbbed. Her fingers were sunk into his shoulders, clutching tight. They both held still, caught in the moment, both aware of the heat, the beat of their hearts—the almost overwhelming yearning.

The moment passed.

Slowly, very slowly, he bent his head and their lips met again in a gentle, clinging, soothing kiss. His hands left her skin; he tweaked her bodice closed, then slid his arms about her and held her—simply held her.

Later, as they left the parlor, Portia glanced back. The daybed lay swathed again; there was no sign that anything dramatic had occurred in the room.

Yet something had happened; something had changed.

Or perhaps been revealed.

Simon drew her out and shut the door; she could read nothing in his face, yet she knew he felt the same. As he twined her arm with his, their gazes touched, held. Then they faced forward and walked back to the gallery.

She needed to think, but the dinner table and the company surrounding it were no help at all. Portia cast an irritated glance at Kitty; she wasn’t the only person thus employed. The woman was a vacillating nitwit; that was the kindest conclusion Portia could reach.

“I hear we’re to have a major luncheon party tomorrow.” Beside her, Charlie raised his brows, then slanted a glance up the table at Kitty. “Apparently she’s organized it.”

Distrust, not to say suspicion, rang in his voice.

“Don’t borrow trouble,” she advised. “She was perfectly reasonable over lunch today. Who knows? Maybe it’s only in the evenings that she . . .”

“Transforms into a femme fatale, and a peculiarly unsubtle one at that?”

She nearly choked; lifting her napkin to her lips, she bent a frowning look on Charlie.

Unrepentent, he grinned, but the gesture wasn’t humorous. “I’m desolated to disappoint you, m’dear, but Kitty can behave atrociously at any time of day.” He glanced up the table again. “Her attitude seems entirely at whim.”

She frowned. “James said she’d grown worse—worse than she used to be.”

Charlie considered, then nodded. “Yes. That’s true.”

Kitty had started the evening badly, openly flirting—or trying to—with James in the drawing room. Charlie had tried to intervene, only to bring Kitty’s wrath down on his head. Henry had come up and tried to smooth things over, resulting in Kitty’s flouncing off, sulking.

They’d come to the table with Mrs. Archer agitated, as if her nerves were giving way. Others, too, showed signs of distraction, of awareness, reactions they would normally cloak with well-bred ease.

It was, Portia thought, as the ladies rose to repair to the drawing room, as if the genteel facade of the house party was fracturing. It hadn’t cracked and fallen away, but ignoring Kitty’s behavior was proving too great a strain for some.

Like the Hammond girls; confused by it all—hardly surprising, for no one understood—they clustered around Portia, eager to chatter brightly and forget all the black looks. Even Lucy Buckstead, rather more up to snuff and with greater self-confidence, seemed subdued. Portia felt forced to take pity on them; she encouraged them to dwell on the prospects for tomorrow—whether the officers with whom they’d danced at the ball would ride over for the luncheon party, whether the quietly handsome young neighbor, George Quiggin, would attend.

Although her efforts were sufficient to distract Annabelle, Cecily, and Lucy, she could not rid herself of the irritation Kitty evoked. Glancing across the room, she saw Kitty talking airily to Mrs. Buckstead and Lady Hammond. Despite her occupation, Kitty’s eyes were fixed on the doors.

The doors through which the gentlemen would return.